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sesamestreep · 3 months

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30 Day Writing Challenge - Day 7

Use the words: small town, bar, jukebox (from this list) ➸ slight future fic in the west wing AU, set probably six months after part 4 which does not exist yet (🫠) so maybe consider it a preview of what’s to come eventually in the series?? corresponds to the beginning of season 3 of the west wing when everybody’s in Manchester for the campaign and based (loosely) on that scene where Toby sucks at pool. ♡ dedicated to my pal @aivley-reblogs who had the chance to influence me to make this fic less weird and horny and chose violence instead ♡

It's only after Foggy has managed to send Karen and most of the remaining staffers that were still holed up in the bar either working or blowing off steam back to their hotel rooms for the night that Matt finally reappears.

“Did I miss the end of the party?” Matt asks.

“We’re calling it a night,” Foggy replies, as he’s futzing with his wallet. He's waiting on the drink he just ordered with plans to close his tab after that. “The team’s picking back up with the speech in the morning. Hopefully, some rest will help.”

“I don’t know if one good night of sleep is enough to make everyone see eye to eye there.”

“Yeah, but it’s almost midnight and I think we’re all entitled to some delusion.”

Matt smiles at that, and says, “You’re heading out, then?”

Foggy leans back against the bar. “After this drink, yes.”

“I’d have another too, if you’re offering.”

“Yeah, alright,” Foggy says, at the exact same moment the bartender reappears with his drink. “Can I be a bother and add one more thing to my tab?”

The bartender gives Foggy the impression of someone who’s probably a school teacher by day and does this for extra cash because the educational system in this country is fundamentally broken. That’s a long way of saying she’s a different breed from the sleek, lithe employees of the downtown DC bars he usually frequents, most of whom could and likely do double as escorts to senators and ambassadors now and again. She’s also probably old enough to be his mother, which makes it charming and not weird when she nods curtly and turns to Matt with a, “Jameson, right, honey?”

“Yes, thank you,” Matt replies, with the sort of humble acquiescence of someone used to terms of endearment from the older ladies at church. Once she’s gone, Matt pokes Foggy’s wrist and says, “You play pool?”

“Not as well as Karen, but…”

Matt smiles, too brightly for the hour and for their current circumstances. “I see news of my humbling defeat has already reached you."

"As if there's a force on this earth that could actually humble you in any real way."

"True enough," Matt replies, his smile only growing. "It's clear to me now that I should have done my homework before challenging her, at least.”

"I hope you didn't put any money on it," Foggy says, casually.

"Nothing I couldn't afford to lose," Matt says, with a shrug. It's hard to tell in the subdued lighting of the bar, but he might also be blushing faintly. "If you're worried, I'll be generous with you. You can lose for free."

"Golly, thanks," Foggy says, drily, making Matt laugh.

"Sounds like a yes to me," he says, before nodding to the raised area in the back of the room where the pool table resides. “I’ll get it set up. Meet me there when you’re all set.”

“Sorry, am I buying and delivering your drinks now, Murdock?”

“Seems like it, yeah,” Matt replies, with a grin that threatens to overtake his face as he effortlessly walks back from the bar without turning away.

“And what do I get out of this arrangement?” Foggy shouts after him.

“The pleasure of my company,” Matt fires back, and then disappears again.

Foggy can’t deny that that’s enough of a draw for him, but he doesn’t have to be stupid and admit it out loud. Instead, he gets Matt’s drink without further complaint, as well as his own, closes his tab, and heads over to the slightly enclosed area at the back of the bar where there’s a pool table with Matt Murdock leaning against it. He hands the drink off to him, and clinks their glasses together before Matt can pull his away.

“Cheers,” he says, for no real reason, and watches Matt’s throat move on a swallow just a little too closely. He feels fine and normal otherwise.

“You know how to play?” Matt asks, inclining his head towards the table as he stands and makes his way to the rack of pool cues.

There’s something loose and warm in the way he moves around the rounded corners of the table, like this is his neighborhood bar and he knows it by heart. Foggy attributes it to the few drinks he’s had over the course of the night and a certain natural grace that Matt seems to possess, but having an explanation for it doesn’t dampen the effect of it at all. Just like he was fascinated by Matt’s throat a moment ago, Foggy now feels like he can’t take his eyes off Matt’s hips, which is a real problem.

“I’m a man of a certain age, Matthew,” Foggy gripes, in the hopes of distracting from his obvious enamored state with sheer bad manners. “Of course I know how to play pool!”

"Good, then I won't go easy on you," Matt says.

"I have a feeling that was never an option," Foggy retorts. "What's a guy like you get out of pool, anyway?

"A guy like me? What's that supposed to mean?

Foggy rolls his eyes. "Don't give me that. It's a pretty visual game!"

"True enough. I was going to ask you to point me in the right direction, depending on whether I end up with stripes or solids."

"I could lie."

"Yeah, but you won't."

"I'm a politician, kiddo. Don't be so sure."

"'Kiddo'," Matt repeats, evidently delighted by it. "You're in a real mood, huh?"

"I'm fine," Foggy says, too sharply. "You want to break or shall I?"

"You go ahead," Matt offers, generously. "I want you to feel like you stood an actual chance, at least to start."

"You're kind of an asshole, you know that?"

"Oh, I'm aware. You can save the energy you're about to put into pretending you don't like it, by the way."

"I don't like it!"

"Sure."

"I really don't," Foggy says, even as he's trying to fight a smile. And winning, but still. "Not right now I don't, at least."

"Yes, you do," Matt replies, knowingly. "Right now, me being an asshole is the only thing stopping you from taking your frustrations out on someone who doesn't deserve it."

Foggy sighs, defeated. "You don't deserve it either."

"Give it fifteen, twenty minutes and see if you still feel that way," Matt says, lightly, and nudges him with his elbow.

Foggy steps up to take the first shot, breaking the neat little triangle of billiard balls that Matt has assembled in the center of the table with the white cue ball easily. Nothing goes into a pocket, of course, not that he really expected it. He's fine at pool, generally speaking, but not great. It's a feeling he's beginning to get used to (and increasingly tired of) in the rest of his life as well.

"Let's keep it simple," he says, as he stands up. "Whoever sinks the most shots wins."

"Easy enough," Matt says, coming to stand next to him. "Where's the cue ball?"

Foggy steps in close to Matt's side, until their arms brush. "Eleven o'clock."

Matt nods and sinks down into his stance. Foggy steps back, both to get out of his way and to admire his form. Matt’s got a nice ass, which is something Foggy noticed about him basically immediately, being gifted by God with both the power of sight and the blessing of bisexuality. He can normally control himself enough to conveniently avoid noticing it, except for right now when it’s late, he’s a little tipsy, and Matt’s suit is perfectly tailored to show it off. It is, quite frankly, a ridiculous situation he’s gotten himself into. Even the dim amber lighting of the bar is blending with the glow of several nearby neon signs—they serve Heineken and Pabst Blue Ribbon here, apparently—to cast Matt’s skin in the dreamiest light possible.

Matt sinks three balls without trouble before Foggy can manage to tear his gaze away from his ass, and even then, it’s only to get distracted by the lovely shape his fingers make around the cue. He misses his next shot by about three millimeters, a miracle that Foggy attributes either to the power of his overwhelming horniness creating some sort of palpable disturbance in the atmosphere or God punishing him for his lustful thoughts by contriving a scenario where Matt’s no longer bending over a pool table in his line of sight. Either way, it’s a reprieve.

“That’s you,” Matt says, still stalking around the table like a jungle cat. Foggy might need to get out more, is the thing.

“How are you this good at pool, anyway?” Foggy asks, as he lines up his shot and delicately avoids letting his hips come into contact with the table. He thinks unsensuous thoughts and doesn’t look over at Matt at all, because, with his luck, if he does, Matt will be innocently fellating the pool cue or some similar such nonsense. Better to avoid it altogether, he thinks.

“Practice,” Matt says, smugly. “And very, very dim vision, technically.”

“I didn’t know that,” Foggy says as he sinks a shot, finally. Even that, the sound of the ball finding the pocket, is kind of erotic to him now because his life is a farce.

“Yeah. Most blind people have some vision. Total blindness is fairly rare.”

“So, what I’m hearing is you totally just let me lead you around most of the time because you really just like walking arm in arm with me. Is that accurate?”

“You caught me,” Matt says, with a soft smile, and Foggy misses his next shot completely. “Not bad.”

“3 to 1,” Foggy replies, pushing himself up.

“You’re on the board,” Matt says, passing behind him closely enough that Foggy catches the scent of his cologne mixed with the Jameson left in his glass. He takes another drink and Foggy wonders what his mouth would taste like right now and also if there’s a historically significant, beautiful river nearby that he could potentially drown himself in. They’re in small town New Hampshire, after all. The chances that Benedict Arnold did something stupid near here back in 1776 and there's a scenic spot with a plaque commemorating it are pretty high. There are worse places to drown yourself, he figures.

“Don’t patronize me,” he grumbles, instead of saying any of that out loud.

“I wasn’t,” Matt says, grinning as he settles into his spot for his next shot.

“How much did Karen beat you by, again? I feel like it might be helpful, for me, to know.”

“It’s not fair,” Matt says in an exaggerated whine that’s in no way convincing. His smile doesn’t help either. “I’m blind and she tricked me!”

“I don’t think her being better at pool than you expected constitutes a trick on her part, Matt.”

“She let me explain the rules to her for like ten minutes!”

“And I bet she let you do that thing where you got real close and showed her how to handle the stick from behind too,” Foggy says, infusing his tone with mock pity.

“Oh, she dropped the ruse well before that point, though I’ll be the first to admit I’m not above that move,” Matt says, unrepentant, and sinks another shot. “But I can always do that for you if you need some pointers!”

“Sure,” Foggy says, sweetly. “Come on over, big boy.”

Matt misses his next shot because he’s too busy doubling over with laughter. “Jesus, Foggy!”

“Don’t put anything on the table you don’t want people to accept, Murdock.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Matt says. “Your turn.”

Foggy sighs as he gets into position. Matt comes to stand at his side and, after a quiet moment in which Foggy attempts to line up his shot, puts his hand on the small of Foggy’s back. It takes all of Foggy’s concentration not to jump away from the touch, but he manages to keep his cool, just barely.

“Your stance does need work,” Matt says, mildly, and kicks him in the ankle before Foggy can make a smart comment about what his lower back has to do with his stance. “Bring this foot out a little.”

Foggy complies, because his brain can’t think of anything else to do in this moment. “Better?” he asks.

“Good,” Matt replies, and Foggy likes the tone in his voice a little too much for his own well being. “Take your shot.”

Foggy does, and scratches. The humiliation, at least, cuts through the arousal rather effectively. That’s something.

“Saboteur,” he mutters as he goes off in search of the lost cue ball.

“I can improve your stance, but your aim is your own problem.”

“A likely story,” Foggy says, as he returns. “I’m hip to your little mind games now, Murdock.”

He puts the cue ball into Matt’s outstretched hand. Matt is entitled, per the rules, to place it wherever he likes on the table to set up his next shot, but he stands there cradling it thoughtfully in his palm, testing its weight, instead, for a long moment, like a total sociopath, adding more force to the argument that Foggy is currently being punished by a mean-spirited and vengeful god.

“You know massaging that thing won’t help you score, right?”

Matt gives him a smile that indicates he either appreciates some good trash talk between men or that he’s seen through to the very heart of Foggy’s desires and found them trivial and amusing in the grand scheme of things. Either way, it’s a good look on him.

“Can’t hurt, can it?” Matt asks, smugly, and places the cue ball before lining up his shot and sinking it in one practiced, elegant motion. “5 to 1, correct?”

“Yep,” Foggy says, leaning back to watch the show without guilt now, since he’s paying for it so dearly at the cost of his self-respect. Matt sinks another shot and Foggy doesn’t even care because he’s too transfixed by the way the fabric of Matt’s dress shirt bunches up around his bicep and spreads taught between his shoulder blades. Foggy takes a healthy sip of his drink because his mouth is suddenly so dry.

"You know," Matt says, casually, with his ass unceremoniously in the air because pool is the greatest game ever invented, in Foggy's not-entirely-sober opinion (even if he is losing spectacularly), "we are rapidly approaching the point in the game where you can't actually win."

"Yes, I'm aware. Believe it or not, I can do basic math. It's one of my very few skills."

"I don't agree with that assessment."

"You don't think I can do math?"

"I think you have lots of skills," Matt says, as he brings his score up to seven. "The gift of foresight, for one."

"What?"

Matt smiles. "You were smart to accept the offer not to play for money."

"Oh, right. Sorry, I thought—you're right. That was smart.

"What did you think I meant?"

"Nothing, I—it's not important. I was just confused for a second there."

"Foggy..."

"Just take your next shot, Matt," Foggy interjects, harshly. "You're one point away from ensuring complete domination over me."

Without turning away from him, Matt reaches out to poke the cue ball with his cue, leaving it to roll hesitantly and without urgency into the bumpers around the edge of the table. "You're up," he says, with a helpless shrug, and comes to stand next to Foggy.

He sighs. "Matt, listen—”

"I didn't mean the tobacco thing," Matt says, ignoring him. All of the levity of a moment ago is gone. They're not cheerfully messing around anymore, it looks like. "That's not how I'd bring it up. You know that, right?"

"I do know that. You wouldn't—it's just that it's been on my mind. That's why I went there. It has nothing to do with you."

Matt nods, absently. "I hope so."

"It's the truth," Foggy says, grabbing him by the arm to emphasize his sincerity. "And you've been a real class act for not rubbing my nose in it. I deserved an 'I told you so' at the very least and you haven't given me one, so I should be more appreciative."

"You don't have to thank me for not kicking you when you're down."

"I went to you for advice on how to handle things with the Appropriations subcommittee and then blatantly ignored all of the very good advice you gave me. 'I told you so' would be getting off easy."

Matt smiles, reluctantly. "To be fair, I don't think you really went to me for advice. You knew what you wanted to do before you came to me."

"What was I looking for then?"

"Permission," Matt suggests. "Forgiveness. Maybe some mild fawning over your political acumen."

"All of the above, maybe," Foggy admits, warily, and rubs his face. "I'm sorry."

"For which part?"

"Ignoring your good advice, for one thing. And, well, if I made you feel like I was pulling rank on you, that's not good either."

Matt laughs. "You do outrank me, Foggy."

“Still,” Foggy says. “I like to think I’m not that guy, usually.”

“What guy?”

“The one who’s so far up his own ass that he can’t see anyone else’s point of view.”

“Oh, yeah,” Matt says, thoughtfully. “You’re definitely not that guy.”

“I was to you.”

“Not really. It was one situation where you didn’t take my advice. That’s going to happen if we work together for any stretch of time. It’s going to happen again, I’d guess. I hate to think you’re going to beat yourself up this much every time.”

Foggy nudges Matt with his elbow ineffectively. “You’re being too nice to me.”

“And you’re being too hard on yourself,” Matt replies. “Someone’s got to be nice to you. Might as well be me.”

“I notice this vow of kindness doesn’t extend to letting me win at pool.”

“Even I have my limits of good grace, Foggy,” Matt says, with a smile. “Besides, I already lost once tonight. My ego barely survived it.”

“Yeah, I know,” Foggy says, earning a confused look from Matt. “Karen asked me to check on you before she left. She was worried about your fragile mental state, that maybe you were weeping over your humiliation alone in the bathroom.”

“No such luck,” Matt laughs.

“My theory was that we had you to thank for the back-to-back Shania Twain songs on the jukebox at the time.”

“Also not true, but only because Shania Twain isn’t exactly sulking music.”

“Speak for yourself,” Foggy says. “I could sulk to Shania.”

“Well, that’s why they pay you the big bucks, I guess,” Matt replies, absently leaning his weight onto the pool cue. “I didn’t know you were paying such close attention.”

Foggy pauses with his glass midway to his lips. “What?”

“When Karen and I finished our game,” Matt says, still brightly but with a strange edge, like he’s not sure mentioning this is the right thing to do. “I thought you were still outside with Jeri.”

“I was,” Foggy says, and then reconsiders. “I mean, I was for most of your game, I think. When I came back in, you two seemed to be finishing up.”

They also seemed to be laughing and touching a whole lot, which is why Foggy hadn’t come over. He’d slunk off to drink at a table with Marci and Ben and a few of the new people Jeri had hired to run the campaign while they went nine rounds over the wording of a single sentence in the speech for the President’s official announcement for the bid for re-election. The senior staff and the campaign staff were finding it difficult to mesh together so far and it meant that this important speech was stuck in limbo between them like a child of divorce in a nasty custody battle. Everyone, it seemed, was having a miserable time of it lately, which was especially inconvenient because there’d never been more scrutiny on the administration before this particular moment.

Matt was, technically, campaign staff but he’d been on the payroll longer than anyone else, because he’d been doing polling for them for a while now and they’d just decided to extend his contract and fold it into their re-election efforts. So far, he was keeping his head above water and wasn’t getting embroiled in the stupid little pissing matches happening elsewhere, which was impressive. He’d also been pitching in and helping with the announcement speech where he could, but there were a lot of egos to soothe or flatter in that area and it wasn’t what they were specifically paying him to do. Still, Foggy’s been pleased so far watching him navigate these tense situations and remain professional and undeterred in spite of them. It’s partly because Foggy had been the one to recommend Matt in the first place that he feels such obvious pride, but it’s hard to ignore that there’s another reason for it. He’s trying to make peace with the fact that he’s more than incidentally in love with Matt and constant proximity is not tempering it at all. In fact, seeing Matt every day now and watching him succeed at the thing he loves doing makes Foggy so absurdly happy, it’s almost like these professional victories are happening to him by proxy. Which means, in terms of ever getting past this unfortunate crush, Foggy is monumentally fucked.

“You should have come over,” Matt says, still talking about his game of pool with Karen, oblivious to Foggy’s inner torment. “She said you would, when you got back.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt anything.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“I’m bad company tonight,” Foggy says, spreading his arms out defensively.

“You’re never bad company, as far as I can tell.”

“What did I ever do to earn such loyalty from you? Just let me call myself an asshole, man.”

Matt sighs, disappointed. “You made one mistake, Foggy. You’ve got to—”

“I made a mistake that could cost us the election!”

“It could, but that doesn’t mean it will! It’s still early and we’ve got a lot of ground to cover. And, more importantly, you got the Justice Department 30 million dollars to go after the tobacco industry! That’s what they asked you to do! That’s a victory! Why don’t you see that?”

“Because there was a larger victory that I left on the table in my need to get anything done in this fucking town,” Foggy says. “I mean, not this town. We’re in Bumblefuck, New Hampshire. But you know…”

“Yeah, believe it or not, I followed that,” Matt says, unimpressed. “And smaller victories are nothing to scoff at. I think you’ve been in this business so long you’ve lost sight of that. Small victories are how you build your way up to bigger ones. In fact, most big victories are comprised of smaller ones. You’re good at what you do, Foggy. You know all this!”

“I don’t feel good at this anymore.”

“Yeah, well, speaking as someone who grew up around professional boxers, I’ll tell you that the right time to ask a man about his next fight is not when he’s just been K.O.’d. You’ve still got the flashlight in your eyes checking for a concussion. I wouldn’t make any career judgments right now.”

“You think we’ve been K.O.’d?” Foggy asks.

“I think the administration’s on its ass right now, for sure,” Matt replies, with the steely calm of a real political operative and Foggy’s pride in him is not misplaced even a little, “but that doesn’t mean you can’t get back up. The numbers I’m seeing are better than expected and they’re built on all the good you’ve done for the last three years. People will remember why they voted for you guys in the first place soon enough.”

“God, I hope you’re right.”

“I am and I think that earns me the right to say something that might hurt your feelings a bit.”

Foggy takes a fortifying sip of his drink, bracing himself. “Go for it, then.”

“As great as you are, this election won’t be won or lost on your actions alone,” Matt says, gently. “I know it’s tempting to decide that what you personally do or don’t do is the most important thing in the universe, to take every setback as a condemnation of your efforts and proof that you need to double down and do more, but you’re a part of a team. It’s not up to you to win this election by yourself. And it won’t be your fault and only yours if we don’t.”

“Why would that hurt my feelings?” Foggy asks, far too casually. He doesn’t know who he thinks he’s trying to fool here.

“Because it would hurt mine,” Matt says, “if our situations were reversed.”

Foggy understands that for what it is: an offer of a hand up off the ground, an acknowledgement that he and Matt are the same in this regard. It’s not nothing and he’d be wise to take what’s being given to him here, but he’s not quite there yet.

“I could have done more, Matt.”

“And you’ll have plenty of chances to do so. Tomorrow’s another day.”

“I think it’s always going to haunt me, the things we didn’t get through, the things we compromised on to appeal to our opposition. I think it’ll kill me, eventually.”

“You’ve done a lot of good too.”

“Yeah,” Foggy agrees, solemnly. “But enough? I’m not sure.”

Matt lets that sit, rather than trying to placate him with some sort of truism, which is nice. It’s meaningful to him that Matt knows this isn’t some empty question coming from him, that Foggy really means it when he asks it. He feels certain that this is something Matt worries about too, that this is a question Matt’s asked himself at the end of many days before. It’s dangerous, honestly, feeling this close to someone. This kind of intimacy isn’t something he feels capable of shaking off and pretending isn’t there, most of the time.

“You didn’t answer my question before, you know,” he says, eventually, even though it feels sacrilegious to break this particular silence.

“Which one?” Matt asks, shifting the cue back and forth between his hands in what could be a nervous tic or maybe he’s just bored with this conversation. It’s hard to tell.

“The one about what I did to earn such loyalty.”

Matt shrugs, staring into the middle distance. “You got me this job, didn’t you?”

“Not really,” Foggy says. “I remembered your name. That’s about it. Everything else was a result of your hard work.”

“Then, I guess it’s all for remembering my name.”

“That’s the real answer?”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Matt replies, leaning into his side. “If you win this game, I’ll give you the real answer.”

“I’d need a miracle for that to happen,” Foggy grumbles. “Are you sure I can’t just bribe you?”

“Okay, final offer,” Matt answers, with a cryptic smile, “you get the eight ball into any pocket on this turn and you win.”

“That’s a stupid bet, Murdock. Where did you learn to gamble?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“You’re winning seven to one. Are you out of your mind?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just that confident that you won’t be able to make the shot.”

“Or maybe you just really want to tell me your deepest, darkest secret.”

“My deepest, darkest secret has nothing to do with you, Foggy. You’re getting a shallow, well lit secret out of me in this bargain, if anything.”

“We’ll see,” Foggy replies, breezily, as he approaches the table to line up his shot. He doesn’t have Matt’s lithe sort of confidence or any kind of delusion that he’d paint a tempting picture right now even for someone who could see him, but he is stupidly determined, so he likes his odds in this situation just fine.

“Oh,” Matt interrupts, innocently, at the precise moment Foggy was going to pull his cue back and take the shot. “Since we’re now wagering on the outcome of this game, I should ask: what do I get?”

“What do you get?” Foggy repeats, irritated. He feels certain Matt timed that question to throw him off and he’s not pleased about it. “You’re going to beat me in the most humiliating way possible! What more do you need?”

“I’d like a secret too.”

“Fine, but you had better be satisfied with an equally shallow, well lit one from me too.”

“That kind of depends on what kind of secret you consider the answer to my question to be.”

“What question?”

“What made you remember my name?”

Foggy actually stands up to consider this fully. It’s hard to tell with Matt, if he’s aware of the way Foggy can’t help but flirt with him sometimes and how seriously he takes it. Matt gives as good as he gets, Foggy thinks, but whether he knows that Foggy would gladly make real on all the innuendo he throws at him is another matter. All of which just makes it that much more confusing why he’d make this request in the first place. Does he want flattery? Does he want some confirmation that the new opportunities in his career were gotten honestly? Or does he want Foggy to admit to something here? And why would he want that? To laugh at him? To clear the air? To prove his suspicions about why he got this job are true?

Foggy’s not prepared for any of those scenarios. Matt is maybe just joking around (though he certainly doesn’t look like it) but he’s asking for a bigger secret than he realizes. And Foggy will not be explaining that to him, because even that would be admitting too much. They’re going to be working together closely for a while yet and Foggy’s not going to ruin it now, not right out of the gate. He’s got more instinct for self-preservation than that.

“Fine,” he says, setting his sights on the eight ball again. “You have yourself a deal. Now, shut up and stop distracting me.”

Matt crosses his arms over his chest, looking self-satisfied and unconcerned. This expression changes into one of shock and disbelief at the sound of the eight ball landing in the middle pocket on the left side of the table.

“Like I said,” Foggy states, rounding the corner of the table, “that was a bad bet.”

“You cheated,” Matt exclaims.

“How?”

“I didn’t hear the cue touch the ball. Did you—did you just move the eight ball with your hand?!”

“Of course,” Foggy says, with a shrug. “You never said how I had to get the eight ball into the pocket, only that it had to happen on my next turn.”

Matt laughs in disbelief. “That’s ridiculous! And very clearly against the rules!”

“Not against the ones you set, though. Technically.”

“Yeah, technically, I guess,” Matt says. “But don’t you feel bad winning this way?”

“Of course not,” Foggy answers, gesturing widely with the cue still in his hands. “I’m a pathetic little man, Matthew.”

“Five minutes ago, I would have argued with that kind of negative self-talk, but I’m no longer feeling generous towards you at all.”

Foggy shrugs as he reaches past Matt for his drink. “I would totally understand if you didn’t want to uphold your end of the bargain, by the way. I mean, if our situations were reversed, I would still do it, but I’m a class act, through and through.”

“You’re a cheat is what you are,” Matt says, and it might be the inadequate lighting in here playing tricks on him, but Foggy thinks there might be color rising in Matt’s cheeks. “This is why no one trusts anyone in Washington, you know.”

“I know,” Foggy says, indulgently. “Like I said, it’s up to you. But you’ll also recall I warned you never to put something on the table that you don’t want your opponent to accept.”

“I didn’t mind the idea of you winning, I just didn’t think you’d cheat to get it!”

“Then you underestimated how baffled I am by your loyalty to me.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Matt says, leaning back to rest more fully against the table behind him. “I think it’s obvious why I’d…what makes me feel that way towards you.”

“That’s still not an answer,” Foggy replies, at the same moment he realizes Matt leaning back didn’t put that much space between them after all. He’d gotten pretty close to reach for his drink and, maybe, just to push this conversation from trash talk more firmly into flirting territory. For someone who doesn’t want to fuck things up, he’s really pushing his luck.

Matt exhales noisily, and Foggy can feel it on his neck, that’s how close they’re standing. They’re in a bar, of course, so they have their excuses. It’s noisy, with the patrons and the jukebox and the TVs. They could need privacy, given the jobs they have and the sensitive nature of the information they have access to as part of them. But that’s not why Foggy’s doing this and he suspects that, even if he’s just following Foggy’s lead, Matt doesn’t ultimately have a better reason.

“Why did you remember me?” Matt asks, quietly. “I mean, me, of all people? What made me stand out? What did I do right?”

Everything, Foggy wants to say. You do everything right. You’re smart and conscientious and charming and everyone likes you and everyone remembers you and you’ve got a mind and mouth that won’t quit and an ass to match. Remembering you wasn’t the hard part. Forgetting you someday will be. “Matthew Murdock,” Foggy says, carefully, appreciatively, like he’s really savoring every vowel and consonant. “Very alliterative. Extremely easy to remember.”

Matt’s answering smile is slow-dawning to the point of decadence and he tucks his chin to hide it. “My middle name is Michael, you know.”

“Goddammit,” Foggy groans, because he can’t say what he’s really thinking, which is, come back to my room and I’ll make sure you never want to leave. He’s so fucking in love, it’s honestly stupid.

“As for me,” Matt says, a moment later, after careful consideration, “and what you did—why I feel so—what you asked, I mean…”

“Yeah?”

“It’s just that—”

A loud, chirping ringtone severs the tenuous connection of the moment. Foggy stares openly at Matt’s face as he doesn’t react to the interruption at all beyond stopping talking mid-sentence. After a few tense seconds, Foggy clears his throat and steps back.

“I think that’s you, Matt.”

Matt blinks, like he’s waking for a dream and he doesn’t know where he is. “Right,” he says, without confidence and fishes his phone out of his pocket. He holds it like he doesn’t remember owning such a thing in the first place for a long moment before he flips it open to answer it.

“Hello?” he asks, frowning in concentration. “Oh, Nadia, hi. Yeah, no, not too late, don’t worry. Can you give me one second?”

He pulls the phone away from his ear and puts his hand over the receiver before addressing Foggy. “We’re doing some polling of potential voters on the West Coast tonight, and they need to give me the early data.”

“Right.”

“The speech writing team is going to want this information tomorrow. It will impact the messaging.”

“Understood,” Foggy nods. “You, uh, need to take this, then.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Matt admits, looking apologetic.

“Don’t worry. Cell service is a little better outside, if that helps.”

Matt frowns briefly before his expression clears and he nods briskly. “Thanks. That might be a good idea.”

“I’ll, um, clean this up,” Foggy says, gesturing to the pool table. “You go ahead.”

“Alright,” Matt says, chewing his lip. “Will you head out after that?”

“I might. I could, I guess. Why?”

“No reason.”

“You want me to wait? Walk back to the hotel with you when you’re done?”

“You don’t have to,” Matt responds, looking awkward. It’s a nice out, and it would probably be better to put a little space between them—it’s just too tempting for Foggy to be around Matt like this, late at night, in casual environments, with alcohol and dumb wagers blurring the lines between them that should be crystal clear.

“I’ll wait,” he says, instead, hating the sincerity in his voice. “I don’t mind waiting.”

The worst part is that it’s the most honest thing he’s said all night.